Finding the World
by dandelionbread10
Summary: Post Mockingjay - Katniss and Peeta have returned to a ruined District 12. Katniss cannot escape the nightmares that haunt her nor the grief that grips her. But all too soon, her need for Peeta begins to outstrip her fear of living and embracing life without those she lost. Rated M for later chapters, including one paragraph of selfharm and a bit of smut.
1. Chapter 1

**This is my first attempt at a fanfiction so if you review, please go steady on me! More chapters to follow.**

**All characters/ideas/stories/everything owned by Suzanne Collins.**

* * *

The ceiling is plastered in white swirls. I know every bump in every swirl, every feature of it. I've spent a month studying it. It's been there, above me, as I lie in the bed. There's no point getting out. It's over. Everything's over. The war, the hunger games, Coin, my sister. Gone, dead, ended. It feels like there's nothing left of Katniss Everdeen. It feels like nothing's left. Everything's dead. I've lost myself somewhere and I don't have the energy, of the want, to get it back.

About a week ago, I looked out the window of the house. In the distance I could see the district centre, the seam crawling out beside it. Except it wasn't there anymore. All that was left was a black crumpled mess, like the very coal it mined, scattered across the landscape, smoke still hanging heavily over areas, ruined and broken. Even home is dead.

Someone feeds me. Every day, someone turns up of the few remaining citizens of the district. Their scared of me, I can tell, but they bring me a plate of sandwiches, or some porridge and place it on my bedside table. Mostly I pretend to be sleeping. Sometimes I terrify them by staring blankly at them, refusing to blink or turn away and I get a twisted pleasure from watching them squirm under my gaze. They think I'm mad. Maybe I am.

Sometimes, I think of Peeta. I think of him now as I stare at the swirls on the ceiling. They're like frosted icing swirls, like he would make on his cakes. I wonder what he does every day. Does he lie in bed like me? Does he bake? I imagine him baking in a kitchen identical to the one downstairs, except I can't. Because I've forgotten what the kitchen downstairs looks like. All I can see is Peeta, crystal clear, in a blurred environment. I can't remember the kitchen.

Suddenly, I need to move, to get up. I'm angry about the kitchen. For the first time in a month I need to walk, to move further than the bathroom. I sit up and immediately feel giddy. Wozy, I stand up and the blood rushes to my head. I stumble towards the door, along the path through the dusty floor that my feeders have left. I drift down the stairs, fearful of what will happen now I'm up, scared of what will be downstairs. As I reach the ground floor, I panic: what if someone's in there? Waiting? What if Snow's there? Images crowd my mind of spears entering bodies, of hacked off heads, knifes sticking out of backs and an explosion and body parts flying….Stop. Stop. I hear a screaming as I sink down on the bottom step, cradling my head. Blood pounds in my ears and everything hurts everything is painful. I can't see or hear and all I think is of blood and misery and pain and blood.

Perhaps hours later, I start to wake up. The pain subsides and I shiver. I'm cold. It's night time and dark and I'm dressed in only a t-shirt. Sticky sweat coats my skin and tear tracks have frozen my face slightly. Timidly, I stand up, again woozy and slowly, slowly, with every part of me screaming to run back to the safety of my bed, I turn the handle on the door to the kitchen. It's dark but bathed in a pale moonlight. It's blue – the cupboards are blue. It rushes back to me, all the details of it and suddenly I see Peeta there again baking and the image is complete. It's taken hours to complete it.

I edge into the room, slightly overcome by the rush of sensory stimulations I haven't experienced in weeks. The blue is bright, cheerful and the air is thick with dust and the surfaces are thick with dust. I drift slowly through the room, running my fingers lightly through the dust, making patterns in it that twist and turn as I move further into the house. Now I'm in the living room and it's darker than the kitchen. I can make out the outlines of sofas and chairs and the untouched screen in the corner. I'm about to flick the lights on to push away the fears of shadows in the corner when another light catches my eye. Through the window, I can see another window that glows a soft warm light. Entranced I slide into the window seat of my window, hidden, staring out at the square of light. It's Peeta's house that it radiates from and I can see him, there in the window, I can see him. For the first time, I see him. And I feel relief that he exists, that he's there. Peeta back is turned, but I remember his blonde, straight hair that glints in the light. He's in his living room as well, standing facing the desk away from me. Glancing away from him, I see his sofa – it's set up like a bed. My eyes return to him. Suddenly he stands straight and pulls at his t-shirt, pulling it off completely. I gaze, wanting to turn to run but I can't. All I can do is watch his back, strong and muscled but heavily scared with whip strokes and flame-like burns, as he pulls his shirt of, watching the muscles contract and relax. Then he's pulling down his trousers, pooling them round his ankles. I shouldn't be looking, shouldn't be seeing. He doesn't want me to see this. I don't want to see this. I can't see him. It's too much, all too much. I don't need anyone now. It's too late for that. I'm too broken for him.

But I keep watching.

Now he's standing, still facing away, in just his boxers. One leg stands as muscled as his back and as scarred. The other looks the same, but smooth with no scars. I know that's the fake one. They attached it at the end of the war. When medicine of the capital was available to everyone. It's not real – below the grown skin is metal and plastic. But it looks real. It looks like his. I rake my eyes over him, feeling a sudden need for him, for his arms, for a night held in those arms like those nights on the train and a strange half whimper seeps from me.

Then he turns.

I gasp, waiting for his eyes to find me, for a cruel look to pass over him. Nothing happens. He stares straight at my house eyes raking it. Then, his eyes reach the window and at that moment the time-controlled lamp behind me clicks on, filling the room with dazzling light. And he sees me, and looks straight at me and I'm frozen like a rabbit in a floodlight, staring back. Then, deliberately, he places his hand against the window pane for a second, a long-drawn out second and then he's gone.

I don't go to bed that night. I sit by the window hoping, praying, he'll return to his. He doesn't and I can't see his makeshift bed either since the lights in his house clicked off only seconds after he'd left. Mine stay on until midnight. I wonder if they've done it every night, for a month. Turning on and off as I lay oblivious upstairs, continuing their routine while I lost mine.

Hours pass and I don't move. But finally, impossibly, I fall asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

The nightmares come. I watch Finnick have his head pulled off. I watch Rue die. I watch myself throw spears at faceless enemies who crowd around me nearer and nearer, until one of them falls with a scream and I realise it's Prim. I've killed her and she's burning now in red, angry flames but more faceless enemies surround me and I can't get to her. I can't see her but her screams, her screams, her screams. They fill my head. And I scream and scream. And the enemies are holding me down, their arms wrapped around me. And I scream and I wake up screaming. Their arms still hold me down. I struggle, terrified, trying to escape until my mind unfuddles enough for me to realise its curtains that are wrapped round me, not arms, curtains.

My t-shirt is damp from sweat. My breathing is loud and harsh. A dull dawn light is filling the room. And I'm free from the curtains. I turn and rest my forehead on the window pain, relishing in it's cold, icy touch. My eyes half close in the relief it brings. But as my breath fogs half the pane, I notice that a face watches me on the other side of the road, mirroring my action of holding my forehead to the pane. Peeta is sitting in his window seat, his head pressed to the pane of his window, but his eyes aren't half closed: they're open and staring across at me. My breathing hitches back up to a course pant.

Slowly, so slowly, I raise my palm and lay it flat on the cold pane. A minute passes and I watch him, as he stares back. He does nothing.

I realise I shouldn't be doing this. I promised myself I wouldn't. It's bad for him to communicate with me. He doesn't need me. He can get on with his life. I can't. He needs to move on, I don't. This is wrong, this is breaking the promise I made to myself.

But still, I hold my palm up, waiting. And finally, relief trickles through me. His palm gently curls upwards and mirrors the actions of mine and we stay, frozen in time, each mirroring the other, in unspoken communication across the street. Minutes pass and we don't move. And I don't want use to – I want to stay connected like this forever: forever frozen so that I can be with him and not hurt him. But then, he bends his head, and the palm slips down the window. He gets up, smiles gently across at me, then walks away.

I cry.

Nobody comes to feed me today. Sometimes this happens. I don't know why. I guess it's because no one is free or no one wants to or something. But really I have no idea.

I haven't been up to the bedroom since I left it. I sort of fear it, I guess. But I'm hungry and no food has appeared. I slouch to the kitchen and peer into the cupboards, hoping to find something to nibble on, to keep me going just until tomorrow. There's a wrapped up loaf of cheap bread on the shelf. I open it and prod it. It's stale, rock hard, but it'll do. I take a knife from a drawer and begin carving into the loaf, with some effort. It crumbles, dry but I manage to hack off a slice. I shove it into my mouth, ignoring the dry taste, accepting it as necessary food.

After one slice, I feel full. My stomach has shrunk due to my lack of eating. I turn to the sink to wash the knife up. As I splash it under the water, it glistens. I stop. The serrated edge looks like the knife Clove was going to cut me up with during the first games. It looks like teeth all along the blade. I try to remember how I felt when her weight was heavy on top of me, her grin baring down. I can't, I can't remember who I was then. I wonder if she had me now what I'd do. I already know the answer. She'd kill me. I'd let her. I didn't have any fight anymore. I couldn't stay alive.

I have an urge then, to feel, to remember. Anger pores into me as I realise that to a normal person, nearly being killed by an angry career tribute would be an unforgettable horror. I realise how distorted my life is that that moment isn't considered an important memory. It just fades into the patchwork of near-death experiences.

The angers burns through me. I want to feel it, to remember, to know that pain and horror. I look at the knife clutched in my hand. I move it to flesh of my forearm. I grit my teeth. I drag the segrated edge over my skin and whine in pain. I move the knife back, like cutting the bread. Tears pour form my eyes as I try to feel the panic and the terror. But it's too controlled. I feel nothing and frustration builds. I fling the knife across the room in anger and kick a chair over. My breath is coming out fast and pained and I'm bleeding. My arm is drenched. I've done more damage than I thought.

The blood is everywhere and it makes me feel ill. I don't look at it, I can't but I clench my right hand over it, pressing heavily, applying pressure. The pain is unbearable. I stagger to the bathroom, leaving drops of blood across the floor but the medical cabinet is empty, cleaned out months ago by desperate district 12 inhabitants hungry for drugs to help the firebombed. There's nothing in it. And the bleeding won't stop.

I start to panic, I don't know what to do. The world is starting to bleed at the corners of my eyes, blackness taking its place. My arm is starting to numb. I stumble to the kitchen again, trying to find something to put over the blood on my arm but there's nothing – it's an empty house, with nothing to help me. I half stagger, half crawl to the living room in the hope of finding a throw to pull round the wound. But half way across the room I glance down at my arm and I feel the blackness collide with me. The blood makes me retch and then the blackness corrupts everything and I'm gone.

Somebody picks me up off the floor. Their arms are strong, but soft and they whisper into my ear words I cannot hear. I'm placed on a soft surface and moments later I feel pressure on my left forearm. A stinging. I wince and more words materialise. Then I feel something being wound round my arm, a bandage. I don't open my eyes because I know who is helping me. Who always helped me. If I open my eyes, I know I'll be indebted to him again, like always. I want to open them, god I need to open them but I pull them tight shut up, hoping it's not the person I know it is.

"Katniss, I know you're awake."

Soft, melodious, calm.

"Katniss. Please. Please open your eyes."

I can't stop myself. I open them and clear, honest blue eyes stare into mine.

Peeta has saved me. Just as Peeta always saves me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry for not writing anything for ages! I've been really busy with college work etc. Also, I promise this will get more Rated M in later chapters!**

**Thanks for the reviews!**

**All characters/ ideas/ stories/ everything owned by Suzanne Collins.**

* * *

He hadn't looked me in the eyes since I'd opened mine. For ten long seconds I'd been dazzled by the beautiful azure irises and then he'd turned away, back to tending to my forearm. He looked pained. Was that because he was with me? Was it that painful to be near me? Ashamedly, I gulped back a shaky breath.

His quick fingers were tying a neat knot on my bandage, the callused tips occasionally drifting across my forearm to steady its light shake. Every time he touched me, I wanted to hold his touch there. When it was done he still didn't look up, instead focusing on tidying away the first aid kit.

"You need some sugar," he said softly, "I don't know if you're in shock or anything but it's probably best to keep you warm and keep your sugar levels up."

"I'm fine. I'm not in shock." I replied, bluntly. I hadn't spoken in weeks except to scream after nightmares. My voice sounded strange and unused and came out sharply, harshly. And I wasn't going to be in shock – I had seen and felt worse pain. Nothing shocked me anymore.

At my voice, his eyes flashed to my face and then dropped again, another pained expression crossing his brow.

"Even so, I'll go and get some cookies or something. Why don't you make some tea?" He walked away towards the front door and panic flooded my body at the space in front of me that he had occupied. The nightmares seemed to be rushing forward, trying to fill the space he'd left. "Peeta!" I yelped, my voice breaking at the raised volume. He turned. "What?". I blinked at his dulled, bland tone. "Nothing." He walked out. Suddenly I realised – he wasn't here because he wanted to be. He was just looking after me, like he always did. It was a necessity, not a need. I was just another casualty that he was helping. Another injury of the war for him.

The space around me seemed to grow, larger and larger, and I was disappearing, falling. He was gone, really gone and he'd left me in this kitchen alone. I gripped the edges of the table where I sat, whimpering at the nightmares that were creeping from the shadows towards me. I could see Prim and Finnick and Rue – bloodied, dying, because of me. My fingers tightened round the edge of the table as the images grew in my head, their angry faces, accusing faces, glaring at me.

"I thought I said to get some tea on?" Peeta's irritated voice snapped through my whimpering mind and I looked up at the door. He stood , carrying a tray of cookies, one leg reaching behind to shut the door. When I looked, he gasped.

"Katniss?" He half ran to the table and slammed the cookies down and then turned to me, his arms half extended, ready to take me into them. But then he faltered and paused and his arms fell down to his sides. He stood awkwardly next to me. "What's wrong? Are you alright?" I looked up at him and saw concern crowd his expression.

I don't know why I said it. I would never say it, it just wasn't me. But in that time of vulnerability, when I was feeling pathetic and weak, I looked up at him and mumbled "You left me." I regretted it instantly. His face contorted into guilt and his hands clenched into fists. A silence crept into the kitchen, an awkward, draw out silence. A silence that confirmed I had been stupid to say it. I waited. I waited. Nothing.

And then, his arms were around me, hugging me tightly, too tightly, his fists hard against my back and his face hidden in the crook of my shoulder. He was shaking.

My first instinct was panic. He was flashbacking. I was going to die. I closed my eyes waiting. Waiting for something. A hit, a slap, anything. But it didn't come. And then I felt the shaking and heard a strangled gasp, and I released this wasn't an attack. He has hugging me. Peeta was hugging me. My first real human contact in months was hugging me. I extended my arms gingerly around his back, feeling his warmth and solidness. I was stiff, controlled.

Until I felt his fingers rubbing circles on my lower back. And then it all came rushing back. Peeta, the boy with the bread, my Peeta, and the train nights and the roof of the training centre and the cave and the beach and the palm on the window and his back and his eyes and him, him , him all came flooding back and my stiff acceptance gave way. I melted into his warmth, feeling his living beating body. He was alive. He lived. He existed.

After a while, he drew back. Gently, he pulled me from the table and lifted me in his arms, carrying me to the couch. Wordlessly, he dropped onto it, and held me on his lap, his arms still tight around me, his head still tucked into my shoulder. We stayed there for hours, I think. I don't know. But Peeta was there and alive and that was all that mattered.

Later, he pulled away and proceeded to gaze at me unashamedly, drinking in my appearance. And then his eyes fell to my bandaged arm. "Katniss…" he began, in a strained voice, "Katniss… why?". There was a pause as his eyes found mine.

"I just… Everything was gone and I wanted to feel something physical. Something that existed. I don't know… I just…wanted something real." I looked away, ashamed at my weakness. Ashamed that this was what had become of Katniss, the girl on fire. Ashamed because, for the first time in weeks, I accepted that I had failed, that they had won. That I was a shell of a girl and that I was undoubtedly and unquestionably a broken human being.

Peeta didn't say anything. He didn't move. He just digested my words slowly. Then, tentatively, his fingers reached up to my cheek and stroked my cheekbone.

"You're thin."

I didn't answer. I was distracted by his fingers curling round my cheek gently, his hardened thumb brushing as lightly as a moth against my lower lip. I trembled. His other hand found my open palm and laced his fingers with mine. I gripped hard.

He swept my tattered hair over my shoulder, gliding past my collarbone, my neck. His eyes surveyed me, following his hand. Finally, he rested the hand on my stomach, palm down, an inch below the swell of my breast. I knew he heard my breathing hitch. The twitching half smile betrayed as much.

It gripped me then. The _need _for him. Overwhelming. He was alive and living and existed. He was the only living thing in my world. And he was warm and strong and Peeta. He was my Peeta and he was here. And I craved some of that life, I wanted to feel that life, I wanted to be as strong as him, as alive as him.

I tentatively reached out my hand that wasn't grasped in his and laid it over his resting one. Then, not looking at him, focusing hard instead on the movement, I gripped the hand in mine and moved them both up slowly, so so slowly, to rest on my left breast, which was quivering with my heart beat. I waited for something, anything, some sign from him or reassurance, even a reprimand. When nothing came, I looked up and found his eyes half closed, his mouth breathing heavily.

"Peeta?"

"Katniss" He breathed, his eyes flicking open. They were no longer concerned. They were glowing. And then I knew what he was going to do. Knew because I'd seen it so many times before on his face. Only now, for once, I wanted it. I wanted his warmth. He gently pressed his lips to mine, closing his eyes. His lips were warm, the warmth I craved. He was soft . His kiss was chaste, innocent, a lingering close-mouthed kiss, but he didn't pull away after. He held his forehead to mine, breathing me in.

"Katniss." he whispered again and them his lips touched mine again, but fiercer. His mouth opened slightly and his tongue ran out across my lower lip, probing. Hesitantly, I opened my mouth and his tongue continued its exploration, so so gently and without meaning to, without control, I felt a quiet whimper leave me. At this his hand, still against my breast, squeezed softly and against my mouth again, he murmured:

"Katniss".


	4. Chapter 4

**Managed to get this chapter out quicker - and it's definitely rated m! I feel like perhaps this is moving to quickly but I wanted to get to some smut so I'm blaming it on heightened hormones, half asleep confusions and the possibility that the two of them might regret/ be embarrassed later!**

**Thanks for the reviews. I really appreciate them!**

**As always, everything belongs to Suzanne Collins.**

* * *

Light pressed against my eyelids, burning a warm reddy-orange. I didn't want to open them. My back, curled awkwardly, ached, but I didn't move because I could feel him pressed against me. His chest was flat against my side, a heavy arm flung over my stomach, pinning me to him, a leg twirled inbetween mine. His head still rested on my shoulder and his breath tickled my hair as he breathed deeply in and out.

We were still on the sofa from last night. We'd fallen asleep soon after the kisses and there hadn't been any nightmares - he had guarded me from them.

Gently, I opened a tentative eye to peer at Peeta. The sunlight streaming from the window was bright but I turned my head so I could look fully at him. He was glowing, the sun lighting up his blonde hair into a kind of halo round his head. His long eyelashes brushed his cheeks, casting spidery shadows onto his lightly flushed skin. His mouth has parted as his breath flowed in and out.  
Carefully, I turned my body to face his, not wanting to wake him. As I moved, a frown creased his eyebrows in his sleep and he mumbled incoherently. Lying still, I watched as he frown slowly seeped away from his face after a moment.

I continued my appraisal of him in my new position, noting that he's put on weight - a good thing - and had somewhat solidified since I'd seen him months ago in 13. His old muscles were back but more toned and smoothed than before in the arenas. The arm draped around me was creamy in complexion with a smattering of freckles running up one bicep. His jaw was no longer the smooth, hairless line it had been and instead it was peppered with a coating of blonde stubble that glinted slightly in the morning sun. I realised that Peeta had matured, grown - he was a man now, not a boy. He had changed since I last saw him.

My eyes rested on the flash of skin revealed below his t-shirt where the fabric had rucked up. It was also creamy in complexion but a trail of darker hairs ran down the centre in a line, starting at the bottom of his stomach muscles. The darker nature of the hair confused me.  
Flashing a quick glance at his face to check he was still asleep, I allowed myself to delicately stroke the line of hair, feeling it's softness. As I went for a second stroke, my fingers grazed his muscles and his breathing heightened momentarily. I paused, panicking, but he didn't wake and his breathe fell back into it's continued pattern. Intrigued, I crept my fingers up his shirt, enjoying the warm, smooth sling that coated his solid muscles, running my fingers over the dented lines. Peeta let out a half-moan in his sleep and his arm draped over me tightened, pulling me closer, trapping my arm between our bodies. He still didn't wake, but his head dropped to rest on the top of mine, his lips against my forehead.  
I realised I was excited. Excited by what I was doing. This epiphany had me confused, had me revolted me - what was I doing? Images of Prim floated into my calm mind, sending guilt stabbing into my body. Who the fuck did I think I was - I didn't deserve excitement. Angrily, I yanked my hand out of Peeta's tshirt, furious when a part of me immediately missed the warmth of him.  
My sudden movement stirred Peeta again.  
Scowling upwards I saw the frown reappear on his eyebrows and he started muttering slightly again. "Katniss." He mumbled "don't". And then again his arms tightened about my body pulling me even closer to him and he mumbled again, satisfied "Katniss".

But I wasn't listening. As he's pulled me closer, I felt something firm and warm press against my thigh - I hadn't looked but I knew exactly what it was and to my horror I felt myself blush and heat pool between my legs. The nightmares were chased out my mind as I felt him against me and unconsciously, ridiculously, I gently moved my leg, brushing him against me more. I was prepared for his reaction:  
Even tighter arms, and a whimper of my name. I wasn't prepared for mine: the heat pooled again and my heart started to beat fast. The itch between my legs was unbearable.

Trying to be subtle I hooked my legs around his real one, pulling away from that area of him but tucking his thigh between mine, so that it pressed lightly against the aching burn within me. As his warm thigh touched, I muffled a whimper that crept up my throat.

A few minutes past as I revelled in my relief and Peeta lay murmuring beside me. But then the itch started again and I unconsciously began to move my lower half backwards and forwards along his thigh, feeling the material of his joggers rub against my naked thighs (I was wearing a tshirt and knickers - what I'd worn for the entire time I had been back in 12). His warmth combined with mine brought the gentle relief I craved and I panted quietly as his thigh rubbed up and down against me, fueling the fire down within me. Without realising, my movements became more aggressive and strong and as I continued to rub his thigh against me, pressing down on him to rub harder into him, I felt his arms stiffen around me. Stalling instantly, I looked up terrified and embarrassed. Two blue sleepy eyes found mine, and a confused, dazed expression filled my view.  
"Katniss.. What...are you..?"  
Humiliation flooded through me and I pulled my legs away, shoving them together looking down, anywhere but at him and staring to pull away from his arms. What hell was wrong with me?

But his arms wouldn't let me leave. The held me close, refusing me exit. "Peeta" I whispered, embarrassment coating my words as I pleaded with my voice for him to forget this, to let me move. He didn't. Instead a hand touched my chin and pulled it up to face him.  
"Look at me. Katniss. Look at me".  
Reluctantly, I allowed my eyes to briefly touch his gaze and than flicked them away.  
"Katniss."  
I forced myself to look back. I couldn't read his expression. He stated at me for perhaps a minute and then pulled me back into his arms, holding me flush against his body. "Go back to sleep. It's only quarter to 7."

Against my better judgement, I let him hold me there and eventually fell  
back to sleep, humiliation still flooding my mind.

I woke to the fire being restocked in my stomach. I woke to my hips rocking gently as someone stroked the outside of my knickers in that place. I woke to a calm but burning pleasure. Opening my eyes, I focused on him, grinning, lying next to me. Then I focused on the fact it was his hand that was cupping me, stroking me, causing my hips to buck against his actions.  
"Morning." He breathed and he leaned in, capturing my mouth in a hot kiss. Still half asleep and half convinced I was dreaming I moaned languidly as his strokes increased in tempo. He moved from my mouth to my jaw as a whimpered, leaving soft kisses along my jawbone and reaching my neck. Then, he opened his mouth, wetting my neck, flicking the skin with his tongue. I moaned again and arched myself towards him as he sucked at my neck. I felt his fingers creep to the sides of my knickers pulling the fabric back and I panted lustily. I couldn't think straight. Then, all thought was thrust from my mind as I felt his fingers, his warm real fingers, running against me, against my wet aching burn. My hips bucked again and I whimpered, clutching his other forearm tightly, letting my eyes flutter closed. He kept doing it, teasing me, running one finger up and down me, nudging at the area where I craved him most. I started to feel my eyes roll back as he picked the pace up and my grip on his arm tightened further when he resumed his neck suckling. On and on it went, the strokes, slow and then fast and then slow, the gentle nips at my neck, my whimpers and moans, filling the silence broken only by both our harsh, breaking breathing. It was a strange kind of bliss, a continued aching and need but a half-fulfilled pleasure that kept me stuck in limbo, forgetting where I was and who I was and instead focusing only on his strokes and the repeated second when he ran his finger over my nub in which pleasure swarmed my body and my hips rocked. And then, I felt his finger travel down on its normal path but it paused and I felt it press against me gently before slipping down into my folds and then I felt his finger in me, really in me and for a second the need was fulfilled and I moaned again, arching my back. But then he progressed to moving it, gently pumping it in and out of me and my need heightened and I felt more primeval moans escape my mouth. Lights flickered in front of my eyes as I listened to the small wet slap every-time he pushed his finger into me, and each time I rocked my hips against his movement, trying to reach some unknown want. I was panting again as he increased the speed of his finger and then his thumb brushed against my nub and suddenly I was blinded by white light as something shattered inside me. Pleasure ripped across my body and my hips buck uncontrolled as I moaned and arched and felt pleasure and fire roll across me. My legs shook at it and as he pulled his finger out he ran it up my body, leaving a wet shimmering trail across my stomach. After a pause I opened my eyes and looked directly into his.  
"Better than a thigh?" He whispered, doubt and panic and lust written all over his face.  
I didn't know what to say. The magnitude of what I'd just done flooded over me, the embarrassment of putting myself in the position where my tshirt was rucked up revealing most of my body and my knickers were still twisted away, showing my most private parts. The fact that Peeta, Peeta, had just touched me there and made me pant and whimper and buck was impossible, unimaginable and yet it had happened.

"Peeta" I whispered, not sure what to say - embarrassed and yet grateful and yet confused.

He began muttering slightly, pushing me gently away and I heard apologises and profuse embarrassments in the mumbles.

"Peeta" I whispered, more strongly, pulling myself closer to him. "Thank you."  
He paused, not moving. "For what?"

"For making me forget. For making me feel something...something good. For being here. I don't know just thank you." I whispered back hiding my face in his chest.

He didn't reply, instead placing a soft kiss on my head, and tucking his arms around me.

One final statement crossed my lips, barely audible: "Peeta" I whispered and waited for his reply.  
"Yes?"  
"Don't leave me."  
"Not again. Never."


End file.
